Going Anywhere
by ShotgunOpera
Summary: He was just a drifter, going through life with only destinations in mind. He didn't realize that sometimes the journey is what makes it worth it. Pre-book.
1. Just a boy

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC, everything else belongs to Susie. :) Also, the lyrics and the title of the story comes from "Don't stop believin" by Journey. Corny, I know, but it works. :P

A/N: Ok, guys, I'm taking a new direction with a whole new character. This was inspired by the "quickie – beginnings" thread on the WSOTT forums. I won't be updating with chapter 2 until next month, because of NaNoWriMo, but I'm posting this today for Good Fic Day. Enjoy!

* * *

_Just a city boy_

_Born and raised in South Detroit_

_He took the midnight train_

_Goin' anywhere_

The embers of the cigarette flared as I took another drag, looking around as I plodded along the side of the road. It was twilight, deepening into night, and I had no idea where I was going to end up by the next morning. Before, that might have concerned me, but now I simply welcomed it with open arms. I took one last drag before flicking the cigarette away. I listened to it fizzle out as it hit a puddle, and I pulled up the hood on my jacket.

It was a cold night. Not the kind of cold that chilled to the bone and made one wish for a roaring fireplace, a cup of hot chocolate, and grandma's quilt, but the kind of cold that made me wish for a warmer coat. I had hoped that I would be in Texas by now, but if I didn't get there soon I would have to lift a new coat from either this town or the next. Sure, I had some money from the odd-jobs I worked, but I preferred to spend that on places to stay or things that I couldn't easily lift. I wrapped my coat tighter around me as I sighed, hoping that the light drizzle would stay a light drizzle.

I had jumped off the train about two miles back, and my knee did not like it. My habit of jumping on and off trains onto uneven ground had turned it against me to the point where I tried to not use trains as much. Walking was better anyway; I got to really see the countryside I was passing through instead of just watching it whizz by from the open door of an empty freight car. Sometimes, though, the train was my only option.

I wondered briefly where I was as I wandered into the outskirts of a town; I was pretty sure I was somewhere in Oklahoma, but the name of my current location remained unknown. A large cement building loomed in the distance, and I could just make out the beer brand lights in the windows. Readjusting my duffel bag, I headed towards it; I needed a drink. My knee was killing me and I preferred to find an actual place to sleep tonight besides the wonderful outdoors. Even though I was only 19, my scraggly blond beard made me look older, and I was hardly ever refused service at a bar. I scratched at it absent-mindedly, wondering when I shaved last; I honestly couldn't remember.

Stepping into the bar, my senses were overwhelmed by smoke, cheap liquor, and Hank Williams. It wasn't exactly my style, but beggars can't be choosers after all. The mingling partygoers barely noticed my entrance and paid me no heed as I made my way to a barstool. Slapping my money down on the bar, I got the attention of the bartender and gave him my order. "Whiskey. On the rocks."

Holding the cold drink in my hand, I swished the amber liquid, listening to the ice clink against the glass before I raised it to my lips. I barely noticed the burning as it went down; I was used to cut-rate alcohol, and this was no different. Several sips later, the pain in my knee was easing, and I was starting to relax.

Suddenly a body lurched heavily against me, almost causing me to spill what remained of my drink if I hadn't put it down quickly. The other patron wasn't so lucky, however, and he spilled part of his beer on himself. "Hey, watch it, punk!" he slurred at me, and I looked at him, slightly puzzled.

"Excuse me?"

Blue eyes tried to focus on me from underneath dark, curly bangs. "You heard me, drifter, watch where you're goin!"

Indignation flared within me; I could tolerate many things, but being accused of something that I did not do was not one of them. I replied in my usual slow, even tone. "I believe you were the one to bump into me, sir. Not surprising, considering how drunk you are." I started to turn back around to the bar – and my drink – but the kid wouldn't let it go.

"What?" the boy exclaimed, throwing down his bottle of beer as I turned around again to face him. The shatter of the glass could be heard throughout the bar, and everyone hushed, waiting to see the brewing fight.

I maintained my calm tone. "You heard me."

Without warning, his fist flashed out and struck me in the chin. My head snapped to the side, and I paused a moment before throwing a punch of my own at his nose. He staggered back, stunned for a moment, and then lunged at me.

I was off the barstool in a second, tussling with him in the middle of the bar. The other patrons made sure we had plenty of room, and cheered us on. Most of them rooted for the dark-haired kid, but there were a couple of shouts of support for me. Some people live to root for the underdog.

Suddenly, we were being dragged apart. The dark-haired kid was pushed back, and the man that separated us swore at him. "Goddamnit, Curly, can't you learn to stay outta trouble?"

He then turned to regard me, and I assumed these two must be related. They shared the same dark, curly hair and blue eyes, but he was older, probably almost my age. Lighting up a cigarette, he flipped his lighter closed with a practiced finesse and took a long drag on his cancer stick before asking me, "What's your name, drifter?"

"Wade," I answered simply.

"Well, Wade, I'm Tim Shepard, and I'm in a generous mood tonight. Let me buy you a drink, to make up for my brother being a dick. What'll ya have?"

I told him the same thing I had told the bartender.

Tim flagged down the bartender and before you could snap your fingers, my glass was refilled and Tim sported another bottle of beer in his hand. He didn't really seem to be the one for chitchat, and truth be told I wasn't either, but I did ask him where I could get a room for a couple of nights. Tim directed me to Buck Merril, who apparently owned the place. I haggled with him a little bit about price – he seemed to be the type where if you bullied him enough he would cave in – and eventually I forked over the money and he handed me a room key.

Settling down on the barstool, my newly acquired room key safely tucked away in my pocket, I downed the rest of my whiskey before heading upstairs.


	2. Bad Moon Rising

Disclaimer: I own nothing, only Wade. Everything else belongs to Susie. :) The lyrics are from "Bad Moon Rising" by CCR, and I don't own them, either. Thanks goes out to RileysMomma and Melverne for telling me what they thought of this before I posted.

A/N: I know, I know, I said this wouldn't get updated until December-ish because of NaNoWriMo, but I needed a little bit of a break from my NaNo story, and so I wrote out this chapter and decided to post it to give you guys a little treat before the holidays. ;)

* * *

_Don't go 'round tonight_

_It's bound to take your life_

_There's a bad moon on the rise_

The steps creaked under my weight as I ascended the stairs at Buck's place. My whiskey was finished, and I was tired and intent on laying down for a good rest. The ache in my knee had eased, and in its place, a nice drowsiness settled. I hoped that the bed would be at least half-way decent, but if it was it would just be a bonus; the real treat was being out of the rain.

Unfortunately, it seemed that someone else was attempting to descend the stairs at the same time, and I collided with the boy near the top.

"Watch it, drifter!" he snapped at me, his blue eyes flashing with irritation under white blond bangs as he pushed me out of his way.

I said nothing to him; I had no wish to engage in another fight if it wasn't worth it. My knee – and my whole body in general – was feeling better, and I did not wish to aggravate it.

The gangly youth loped down the stairs heavily, pushing another patron out of the way when he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Geez, Winston …" the patron whined before shaking it off and heading into the pool room. I shook my head and continued up the last few steps and down the hall. I stopped in front of a door for a moment to confirm it was the correct one before I put key to lock and opened the door.

The room was fairly sparse, but it was a lot better than I had originally hoped. A decent bed sat up against the far wall, and a chest of drawers sat to the left, across from the bed. A small mirror hung above it, though I wasn't quite sure what I would use it for. There was no door for a bathroom or anything of the sort, so I figured that there was probably a commune bathroom somewhere.

Stepping inside, I let my bag drop to the floor as I closed the door. I took in a deep breath as I took off my jacket and my shirt and flung them in the general direction of the chest of drawers. I was normally a neat, organized person, but tonight I was too weary to give a shit. I stretched my arms out, feeling the nice strain on my muscles before letting them drop to my side. Kicking my bag nearer to the bed, I sat down on the edge to remove my shoes, flexing my feet after I did so to relieve the cramps I got after walking for a while. The cramps never went away, but they were considerably more tolerable compared to when I first ran away.

I could still remember that night … I barely made it out of the city and I was almost crying in agony as my feet were screaming for relief. I was so young, then, so unprepared for what I was doing. But then again, there isn't really much you can do to prepare for running away. It's something that you just do.

Standing up, I stretched one more time before I bent over to retrieve a towel from my bag. I intended on cleaning up a bit before retiring. Rifling tiredly through my things, I found what I was looking for, and then stood up, intent on finding the bathroom.

As luck would have it, it was all the way on the other end of the hallway. _At least I probably won't be woken up by drunk and hung over people heaving and throwing up until they pass out._ It was small, containing just the necessities; a sink and small surrounding countertop, toilet, and bathtub, complete with a neutral-colored shower curtain. _I guess the frilly ones weren't on sale_, I mused to myself as I set the towel down on the countertop. I had no intention of taking a shower tonight – I would save that effort for in the morning – but I wanted to get cleaned up at least a little bit.

Running the water until it was nice and warm, I dunked my arms under it before reaching for the soap sitting next to the faucet. The amount of dirt on my arms was very apparent as the suds turned a dull brown as I scrubbed.

Rinsing off my arms, I splashed the water on my face and followed suit. Even though I couldn't see the suds this time, I knew they were probably about the same dull brown. I splashed my face again, trying to get off all the suds and soap residue before I turned off the water and dried my face and arms with the towel.

I was always somewhat surprised when I looked in a mirror, mostly because the face that looked back at me looked so much older than what I was. But then again, I _felt_ older. Just the almost constant creak and ache in my joints that accompanied so many years on the road pushed my age up a notch or two.

I scratched my beard again, now damp from washing. I would probably trim it tomorrow, to make myself a little more presentable as I searched out a temporary job, but I would never shave it. If I shaved, I would look like a fresh-faced kid again, and you can't have that when you're out on the road.

Grabbing my towel, I walked back down to my room. I had locked it while I was gone – just in case. Most of the patrons here looked ok, but you didn't get as far as I did taking chances.

I closed the door behind me, but per my bedtime routine didn't lock it just yet as I hung the towel from a hook in the far wall. I had learned the hard way a long time ago to not put a damp towel back in your bag. It had taken weeks for that smell to evacuate, and I had to get a few new items of clothing because that musty smell just wouldn't come out of them.

Just because I was pretty much homeless didn't mean I had to smell like it.

Cracking my neck, I tiredly reached for the fastening on my pants, letting them fall to the floor before I stretched and simply stepped out of them. It was pretty nice and warm in the room, so I saw no need to sleep in anything but boxers. I kicked my pants in the direction of my shirt, intent on lying down and passing out for the night, so you can imagine my surprise when the door suddenly opened as I was reaching to lock it.

My eyes widened, and I was taken aback to see a girl standing there, probably no more than a few years younger than I. Her curly blond hair came to just below her shoulders, and the sides were pulled back and away from her face. She would've been gorgeous, I mused, if she hadn't poured five pounds of makeup on her face. Instead of making her look older, it made her look younger, like a child playing dress up with her mother's clothes and cosmetics.

We stared at each other for a split-second, each of us wide-eyed in surprise. She quickly glanced at the number painted on the door, and said, "Sorry, I got the wrong room." She smirked amusedly before she continued, "Whenever Dally and Buck have a fight, Buck kicks him out for a while. Whenever they settle down, Buck gives him another damn room, but it's always a different one." She started to turn, but paused and looked back. "Sorry."

"No problem," I waved her on.

Suddenly a booming voice could be heard throughout the hallway. "Sylvia, I thought I told you to wait in the room while I got us some beers!"

The girl – Sylvia, apparently – rolled her eyes and shouted back, "I got the wrong room, Dallas! If you and Buck didn't fight so much, I wouldn't get so goddamn confused!"

The blond-haired boy from before appeared in the doorway, and his eyes turned to ice when he saw me. He leveled a look at Sylvia and simply said, "What the fuck, Syl."

Sylvia gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you, I forgot what damn room you got this time. Now come on, let's go."

She started walking back down the hallway, but Dallas stayed a second longer. His eyes locked with mine, and while he didn't say anything, I got the drift that he wanted me to stay the fuck away.

That would be no problem. I didn't like loose cannons, and I planned on staying as far away from Dallas Winston as I could.


	3. Workin' for a living

Disclaimer: Wade is the only thing that's mine in this story, everything else belongs to Susie. The lyrics are from "Workin' for a living" by Huey Lewis and The News. Nope, don't own them, either.

A/N: An update! Finally! Sorry to those who have been waiting forever and a half for a new chapter to this story. I got a little bit of writers block for chapter 3, but with my wonderful beta - RileysMomma - coming on board, it was lifted. This is a short chapter, but a very necessary chapter. RM, as always, thanks for pointing out the excess commas, and for everything else that you do. :)

* * *

_Bus boy, bartender, ladies of the night, _

_Grease monkey, ex-junky, winner of the fight. _

_Walking on the streets it's really all the same, _

_Selling souls, rock n' roll, any other day._

I stepped into Buck's quickly to escape the downpour that was raging outside. My old coat had done a fair job of keeping off most of the rain but I could still feel drops of water run down the skin of my back when I straightened up. I sighed as I ran my fingers through my long hair. Despite my trimmed beard and my manners, my job search today had been fruitless and I wasn't too happy about that.

Per habit, I scanned the room as I walked to the bar. Hardly anyone was in at this time of day, just a few cowboys in the pool room and another group huddled in the corner with a deck of cards playing poker – or at least their bastardized version of it.

Buck Merril's lanky form was parked behind the bar drying a glass. I set some money on the bar and ordered a drink, same as the night before, plus a bag of peanuts. A glass full of amber liquid was soon thrust in my hand and I sighed before I took a sip.

"Ain't nobody oughta be out in this mess," Buck remarked casually.

I sighed; this was the small-talk routine that Buck threw at everybody. Again, I wasn't one for small talk but as long as I was sitting at the bar I felt obligated. "Well, ought to or not, I'm going to have to go back out in it." By the tone in my voice I was sure he got the drift that I while I had to do it, I most certainly wasn't going to enjoy it.

"And just what the hell is worth getting drenched to the fuckin' bone for?"

"Job," I replied as I opened the peanuts.

Buck paused a moment, looked around, and then fixed his eyes on me again. "You lookin' for a job?"

I rolled my eyes; nothing got past him. "Yes."

"What kind?"

"The kind that pays money," I deadpanned as I popped a peanut in my mouth.

Buck chuckled, perhaps a little too much. I could tell already that he was starting to schmooze me for something. Guys like that irritated me; if somebody wanted to ask me something I'd rather they just come out and say it. "Well if you don't mind getting dirty now and then, I could use some help. Between the stables and the bar they got me goin' in circles, know what I mean?"

I nodded; he knew that I wasn't stupid so he didn't seem to feel the need to spell it out. "And what kind of compensation could I stand to see from this little … venture?" I asked as I popped another peanut in my mouth.

"Thirty-five dollars a week."

He was a low-baller. I was going to have to drive him up. "Well that sounds alright for a spring chicken, but I'm lookin' for a little more profit."

"Aw, come on now. I'll throw in free room and board for ya."

I paused as I sipped my whiskey. It was tempting to go ahead and accept, but I decided to push a little more. "That's a nice gesture, but that's still a little low. Especially if I'm going to be working in stables … I mean, I'm gonna need a little extra incentive if you expect me to shovel horse shit."

I could tell that Buck was dead-set on getting me to work for him and that was good. A desperate man will go higher when pushed, and I could push. "Well, I suppose I could pay you a little extra for workin' stables."

A few silent moments passed between us. If I spoke first it would let him know that I really needed the job; which I did, but I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him that. Instead I waited and he eventually broke the silence. "Alright, fine, I'll give you fifty dollars a week plus tips, free room and board, and I'll throw in free drinks from the bar whenever you want. And hell, I'll give you some extra if you work the rodeo, just because I like ya."

That sounded good to me. I nodded and murmured. "Ok."

Buck broke into a wide grin. "We have a deal?"

I nodded again. "We have a deal."

And with a handshake the deal was set. I now worked for Buck Merril.


End file.
